I’ve become enamoured of the lightning-scorched tree as she spreads her boughs and takes root in the pond. When soaked through, her broken trunk looks wounded, as if she’s just finished bleeding. I don’t know if she is dioecious or monoecious, but to me she is female.
The council cleared branches from the pond, built a new bridge to skirt her, new railings for her to lean against. She seems tamer, tidier. Yet in certain lights, as the sun slowly sets, she rises like Medusa from the depths.
In these moments the desire sweeps over me to drop to my knees, hold her brokenness and pray for her, beg for her forgiveness.
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